Harry spends the next few minutes hovering at the very edge of the atrium of Lockhart's hide-out, looking out across the tables. Fed by Bonnie Darling, there are maybe forty or fifty wizards and witches throughout the room, settled and eating, but they're all preoccupied. They constantly glance up to Lockhart, who remains on his feet to speak with Gladys Gudgeon, and when she arrives, a very young woman in a set of blue dress robes with glitter shining from her skirts. She brings another half-dozen people who settle down at the tables, and Harry frowns deeply as he tries to understand what the Hell Lockhart has these people for.

"Sara," Gudgeon says, touching the young woman's forearm, and Sara meets the older woman's gaze before giving a nod of her head. Sara's magic is silent as she draws her wand across the room, dimming the lanterns hanging from the ceiling, and she Vanishes the empty plates from the table with an obscene ease. Harry can't help but stare, as Sara looks like she might be perhaps nineteen or twenty, and her command over the magic around her is more like something he's seen from Professor McGonagall or Professor Flitwick.

"Thank you ever so much for joining us," Lockhart says, and he stands before a fireplace that has been carved directly into the rock of the large cave (although, Harry notes, the wallpaper has been perfectly moulded around its edges). Lockhart's expression is serious, and he doesn't gesticulate as much as he does usually. "You know how we came to be here: no doubt you've followed the story in the papers the past year - Azkaban, our appearances in Hogsmeade, and Chad." There are a few murmurs about the room, and Lockhart nods his head, studying the faces of those around him. "Chad was murdered recently, as I'm sure you know: it was retribution, in part, for a murder he committed of Belle Rosier."

There are murmurs around the room, but Lockhart doesn't seem to be annoyed or interested by them: he doesn't seem to even notice the reactions of his audience, his blue eyes glazed over and focusing somewhere else entirely.

"Chad was murdered by Death Eaters." Abruptly, the whispers cease. Every eye in the room is on Lockhart, and he takes in a few breaths before he goes on, keeping his audience rapt as he says, "You-Know-Who has returned, and he is slowly gaining power. All of you here are old enough to remember the war, old enough to have lost people during the fight. I myself left Hogwarts and immediately began to travel abroad - I missed the true horrors of that time." Lockhart stands a little straighter, his hands clasped solemnly before him - this is the first time Harry's ever seen him address an audience and not gesticulate wildly.

"When I was broken out of Azkaban, I didn't have a plan. I wanted revenge on those who'd put me there, and I didn't think of what had truly happened - we destroyed the wizarding prison, and as someone who has spent time there..." The glazed look intensifies for a moment, and then Lockhart says, "You cannot possibly know how truly terrible that place was." He speaks in barely a whisper, and goes on to add, "But the Death Eaters escaped with Chad and I, and now they surround You-Know-Who as he readies himself for war once more."

"You suggesting we build an army?" asks the train conductor of the Hogwarts Express, and Lockhart turns to look at him.

"Yes," he says simply. The word rings through the room, and Lockhart studies the faces of the people in front of him. Harry stares, silent, and he looks from Lockhart to the others in the room - there are quietly interested or shocked expressions on each of those gathered, and Gladys Gudgeon is serious, standing behind Lockhart and looking for all the world like his mother. "Would you have You-Know-Who's forces take the world by storm?"

"Why us? Why you?" Lockhart hesitates, and then he looks to Bonnie Darling and Jacqueline Flockhart, who are standing together. Harry follows his gaze, and he sees the way the two women's hands are still entwined.

"I never planned to build an army," Lockhart says. "But during the war, the fight was between You-Know-Who and his Death Eaters, killing Muggleborns and those sorts, and between light wizards and witches - but did anything change? Those of you who are Muggleborn, do you truly feel accepted by the world around you? Those of you with mixed blood in your veins, the w-werewolves, don't you still have to keep yourself registered with the Ministry as if you're less than people?" Lockhart stumbles on the word "werewolf", but none of his audience seem to really notice: they're all focused on him, and Harry wonders which of them are werewolves until he notices the two of them with the familiar shabby clothes, the tired, sickly looks about them. They remind Harry of Remus, and he feels a twist of something in his gut.

There's something not quite right about this situation, and he wonders, for a second, if this is some incredibly abstract dream, if he'd fallen and hit his head on the walk up the mountain.

"You-Know-Who, for the time being, doesn't really care about us," comes the strong, ringing voice of Gladys Gudgeon, and she looks around the assembled witches and wizards with her carefully glossed lips pursed, her expression focused. "He should like Gilderoy and the rest of us dead, like Chad, but we're not high on his list of priorities. We have an opportunity to work together and become a force of our own."

"A force? Why should we fight someone like You-Know-Who?"

"We all have something to fight for," Jacqueline Flockhart says. Her voice, usually sharp and piercing, is slightly quiet, but Harry still hears it at the very edge of the atrium. Flockhart's hand is entwined tightly with Bonnie Darling's, and Harry stares at the way their fingers look; Flockhart's fingers are thinner and bony, with bright green polish upon the long nails, and Darling's fingers are more plump with flour still dusting the knuckles. "War is coming. Why should we go through another war, see more of our children, our loved ones die, to go back to the same state of things? Don't you wish life were different than it is? Don't you wish-"

Flockhart trails off, and she seems uncharacteristically uncertain. Silence abounds in the room, and then someone's watch chimes.

"Sorry!" the wizard in question says, dragging it from his pocket by the chain. "Seven o'clock, need to drink my potion." Harry stiffens. Seven o'clock? Shit. He begins to shuffle as silently as he can around the edge of the room, barely daring to breathe as he makes his way behind Lockhart, behind Dean-Smith, and as fast as he can out of the cave's entrance - he runs as fast as he can possibly manage down the hillside and towards the Shrieking Shack, doing his best not to stumble as he goes.

---

Harry manages to sneak up the grassy knoll and towards the castle, and once inside, he moves down two or three lesser-used corridors from the entrance hall and begins to make his way towards the kitchens. He'd barely been aware of how long it had taken to walk up into the hills, and now he's back in the castle, he's aware of how utterly ravenous he is. Dinner will just be ending in the great hall, and he doesn't wish to try to explain himself as he heads in, so he walks carefully down a corridor towards the portrait of the fruit that leads to the kitchen.

He sets the heel of his boots down first, putting his sole down on the ground quietly enough that he doesn't even make a quiet tap as the toe of his boot touches the stone flagstone beneath him. He has to move slowly, but he doesn't truly mind - the corridors are entry during dinner, and when he tickles the fruit and slips inside the kitchen, he lets out an exhalation of utter relief.

Flying through the air are soaped dishes and trays and serving platters, being wiped clean or dried off and stacked in gigantic cabinets.

"Sorry," Harry says, and one little elf with huge, watery eyes stares up at him. "Could one of you give me a plate of some sandwiches or something? I'm sorry, I missed dinner-"

"Oh, yes, sir!" says the little thing, rushing off into the mess of the kitchen's action, and Harry makes his way slowly towards the stools settled by the fire. He looks at the back of the deep, red armchair settled by the fire, and he sighs a quiet sigh of relief: he can't wait to just settle into that big, cushioned thing, kick off his boots and-

"Is there a reason, Potter, that you have been absent from the castle for the past half-day?" Harry stares at the back of the armchair. Oh, no. No, no, no. Harry's shoulders slump, and he pads forwards to stand beside the armchair. Straight-backed, a copy of a German newspaper Harry can't read folded across his lap, Snape's black eyes meet Harry's.

"I guess I'm in a lot of trouble, huh?"

"Undoubtedly."

"And I'm not going to be able to sit in that chair."

"Assuredly not."

"And you're angry."

"You overestimate my investment."

"You're going to give me detention?"

"At least."

"You want an explanation?"

"Get on with it." Harry meets Snape's gaze, sitting slowly on a stool, and he glances at the fire as he politely takes the plate handed to him by a little house elf at his elbow. Should he lie?

"I snuck out," Harry says, voice quiet. He breathes in, breathes out, closes his eyes. He feels the warmth of the plate in his hands and, most crucially, it's wonderful weight. He opens his eyes and looks down at the stacked sandwiches on the plate, all made up of mixed fillings, and he worries his lower lip under his teeth. He's ridiculously hungry, but he knows he won't be able to eat with Snape's eyes boring into him, so he sets the plate aside, turns to Snape properly, and begins to talk.